Breathe Again
by MusicWritesMyLife
Summary: He needs her like he needs air—which he knows Zack would say is impossible because he physically cannot live without oxygen whereas he physically could live without Angela. Fortunately, Angela isn't Zack. She'd probably find the statement incredibly romantic. Post 2x09.


**I was recently re-watching old episodes of Bones, and this little plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone. Enjoy!**

* * *

Angela talks non-stop for the entire ride to her apartment. Jack doesn't say anything—he's afraid to open his mouth in case he starts crying again—nor is he paying any attention to what she's saying. The only thing he focuses on is the sound of her voice; it's like a soothing balm on his frayed nerves. A reminder that everything is okay.

She apologises as she pulls into her parking space for talking his ear off. "It's all the leftover adrenaline," she says, but Jack knows she was only talking for his benefit.

He gives her what he hopes is a genuine smile and tells her he doesn't mind. "Your voice is soothing, Ange."

She blushes and looks away, fumbling with her car keys. He thinks it's a shame that she's not used to being genuinely complimented; as far as he's concerned, you can't get much closer to perfection than Angela Montenegro.

The climb to Angela's apartment involves a rickety fire escape that probably doesn't comply with many of the city's safety regulations. It's difficult to manage with crutches, and takes Jack even longer because he has no idea how to use his. Angela apologises the whole way up, saying how they aren't allowed to use the elevator after ten because it makes so much noise, but that they can definitely make an exception if he can't manage. Jack just gives her a rueful smile and tells her it's good practice. After all, he has to get used to using these things some time.

By the time they make it to the top, though, Jack's leg is screaming in pain and his arms are burning from the effort of losing the crutches. He can't help wondering if the masochism was really worth all the pain, until Angela looks at him, those beautiful dark eyes full of concern.

"Are you all right?" she asks, fingers deftly twisting her key into the lock, which, from the looks of it, has seen better days.

"Yeah," he says, forcing another smile. While he may love Angela more than he's ever loved anyone in his whole life, he still has his pride. And, after today, there isn't that much of it left to salvage.

She doesn't look convinced, which doesn't surprise him. If there's anyone on this earth who can read him like a book, it's her. If she has anything to say about it though—which he's sure she does; Angela has a comeback for almost everything—she keeps it to herself, silently holding the door open for him instead.

Angela's apartment is beautiful. The spacious, old-style loft is tastefully decorated, full of quirky furniture pieces and brightly coloured rugs that remind him so much of the funky clothes she wears everyday to work. And there's art everywhere. The coffee tables and counters are covered with sculptures. Framed painting and rough sketched hang on the walls. The couches and chairs are covered in beautifully embroidered throws. The bookshelf is full of photographs. It's like walking into her arms.

And it's just what he needs.

* * *

He wakes up in the middle of the night, consumed by a terrible panic. Its pitch black, he can't breathe, and there's something heavy pinning him down. He tries desperately to free himself, kicking his legs, flailing his arms, but he can't quite manage to dislodge whatever is on top of him. All he can think is that the car roof has collapsed and the dirt is pouring in and he's going die. It's going to be long and agonisingly painful and then he, Jack Stanley Hodgins the Fourth, will be gone. And Angela will never know how totally and utterly in love with her he is.

He tries to struggle, maybe to push away some of the dirt, but it's too heavy. His lungs are burning, screaming for more air, but its like his throat has closed up. He can taste the soil; feel the cool roughness of sand and grit in his mouth.

The panic creeps up from somewhere deep inside him and he can't stop it. He wants to scream but his lungs are too deprived of air, and he's pretty sure the muscles in his throat wouldn't obey anyway.

_Angela, Angela, Angela._ Her name thunders through his mind like a heartbeat. _Angela. I love you._

"Jack. Jack, wake up."

Her voice hauls him out of his panic. He's not drowning in soil in some car God-knows where. He's on the couch in Angela's living room—because, while Angela insisted repeatedly that he could sleep in the bed, there was no way he was making her sleep on the couch—the aforementioned possible love of his life crouched on the floor beside him, fingers ghosting over his hair like she wants to touch it but is afraid to. Her face, brimming with concern, is possibly the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Jack takes a few breaths, trying to force some air back into his burning lungs and push thoughts of dying from his mind. There are tears blurring his vision, but for once, he's not embarrassed. Somehow, he doesn't think she will think any less of him if he cries. In fact, he thinks it may increase her opinion of him.

"Are you okay? Because I mean, I could get you a glass of water or some tea or something. Or maybe you want something stronger? I think there's a bottle of Absolut in the fridge—"

"Ange." The words are streaming from her mouth a mile a minute, and he's having difficulty processing it all. "Breathe."

She blushes, ducking her head and twisting her fingers together nervously. "Right. Sorry. I'm babbling again. I just— Sorry. You probably want to get back to sleep." She gets up hastily, and all he can think is that she can't leave, that he can't stomach being alone again.

"Angela, wait." He reaches out and grabs her hand before she can get too far.

Angela turns, and he can see so many things in those beautiful dark eyes: fear, concern, uncertainty. She may not have been buried alive in a car today, but she had to live through it all, had to try and figure out where they were, all the while knowing that every passing second brought him and Brennan closer to dying. Admittedly, it wasn't as scary as actually being buried alive, but it was terrifying in its own way, and Angela didn't know how to deal with it any better than Jack did.

"Please stay," he whispers, hoping she will understand what he can't say: _You can't leave. I need you._

She nods, face flooding with understanding and, could it be, relief? "Okay. I'll stay. But you'd better come in the bed because there is no way both of us are going to fit on that couch."

Ordinarily, Jack would have made some kind of comment about how they could definitely fit on the couch, but tonight he just let's her help him up and lead him to the bedroom. He's too relieved she's staying to think of anything else.

He can't help imagining they're together as she helps him into bed. Everything about this just seems so _right_ that he can't believe she doesn't feel it too. Its like puzzle pieces falling into place. She can't honestly think they can go back to being friends after this. If nothing else, today's ordeal has clarified for him that they can never be "just friends". He needs her like he needs air—which he knows Zack would say is impossible because he physically cannot live without oxygen whereas he physically could live without Angela, though Jack's not sure his best friend is right on this one. There's no doubt in his mind that she's the love of his life, and if she were to leave, if she doesn't love him, he's pretty sure that death would be imminent. Fortunately, Angela isn't Zack. She'd probably find the statement incredibly romantic.

"Did you mean it?"

Angela's voice snaps Jack violently back to the present. She's lying in bed beside him—an appropriate distance away, he notes—chin propped on her elbow, huge, dark eyes luminous with uncertainty and possibly—though he might just be imagining it—hope.

"What?" His voice is breathless, uncertain. He has no idea what she's talking about, but the look in her eyes has his heart beating erratically. He's no psychologist, but he's willing to bet the entire Cantilever group that it has something to do with the conversation they had in her office two weeks ago. The one where she said they had to go back to being friends. That they couldn't try for more.

"What you said...Look, it's not important," she says hastily, looking away. "You were dreaming, you probably don't remember...and I mean, the note was probably some—well you didn't think you'd make it out alive right? So it was more like a deathbed confession or something..."

It's like all the air has suddenly been sucked out of his lungs. He completely forgot about the note in the pocket of his jacket. Though part of him is glad she found it. All of it's true. "Angela. What did I say?" Because he remembers everything he said in that horrifying nightmare, but he doesn't know how much of it she heard.

"You said—" She pauses, cheeks flaming, unable to look him in the eye. "You said you loved me."

He's pretty sure his heart stops for a fraction of a second. "Angie."

"It's okay. I get it. You were dreaming, the whole thing was traumatic, emotions get unleashed, people say things they don't really mean because they think they aren't going to survive—"

Jack has no idea what she's going to say next, but he doesn't care because he's too busy kissing her. It's not a conscious decision; in fact he's not even aware it's happening until their lips are locked. Angela's mouth is soft beneath his own, and she tastes like cherries. It feels like coming home.

For a moment, neither of them can say anything when he finally pulls away. They simply lie there, foreheads touching, listening to each other breathe. It's perfect.

"Just because I was dying doesn't mean everything I said, everything I wrote in that note wasn't true, Ange. They're the truest things I've ever said in my life."

"Jack..."

It's too late to go back now. "I love you, Angela Montenegro. With my whole heart and soul. I don't think I've ever loved anyone as much as I love you and I don't think I ever will. And I know you said we should just be friends," he continues as she opens her mouth, "but I can't. I can't do that, Angela, and what happened today just convinced me that I had to tell you. A love this big isn't something that should be denied."

The silence in the apartment is deafening. Angela is speechless, but Jack's not sure if it's a good thing, or if he's just digging a deeper hole for himself. She kissed him today, after they pulled him out, but maybe she was just happy he was alive. Booth and Brennan were pretty friendly after he pulled her out, too—though everybody at the lab knows they're in love with each other, even if they're too blind to see it.

He can't think like that. She feels the same way he does. He knows it. She has to.

After what seems like eternity, she speaks. "Today, watching everyone trying to decode that text, trying to figure out where you were, always knowing that you were only getting closer and closer to death, it got me thinking. Thinking about us, and about what I said, and it made me realise," she pauses, swallowing, and Jack can see the tears shining in her eyes, "how stupid it all was! How stupid I was, to try and push away my feelings because I was afraid—" she breaks off, trying to swallow her sobs. Jack wants to tell her that it's okay, that he gets it, but he knows she needs to get this off her chest. "I was afraid of what would happen if it didn't work. Because the way I feel about you...If we didn't work out, it would ruin us. And I can't deal with not having you in my life. And I thought that just having you as a friend would be enough, but after everything that happened today...I'm sorry, Jack," she finishes, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"Hey." He takes her hand, gently twining her fingers through his. "It's okay to be afraid, Angie. I'm terrified too. But we can make it work. We will make it work."

"I want to believe it," she says. "I really do. Because I can't live without you, and I don't think I can just be your friend anymore. Life's too short."

Jack grins. "I'm not going anywhere."

Her answering grin is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "Well, right now you can't."

He chuckles, brushing some hair from her face. "Touché. But I won't be going anywhere tomorrow, either. Or anytime after that. I'm here to stay, Angie."

"Good," she murmurs, lips brushing his, "because I'm not planning on letting you leave."


End file.
